


Defined by Negatives

by Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alpha dog!Carolyn, Arthur is irrepressable, Douglas has been reading too much Raymond Chandler, Gaffer tape and hope, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Martin comes through in a pinch, Plane Crashes, Though less comfort and more hurt, an inspector specifically, and a day of the week, and fancies himself a cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 02:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day the gaffer tape fails and they run out of hope, the crew of MJN find they still have each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Defined by Negatives

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based entirely on a picture drawn by the lovely mxdp, [here](http://mxdp.tumblr.com/post/50584232676/cabin-pressure-gerti-crashes-bigger-size).
> 
> Title comes from a [quote](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/p/paultherou114285.html) by Paul Theroux.
> 
> Thanks to the Usual Suspects for betaing.

Somewhere between Bangalore and Mumbai is when it all goes wrong--though neither Martin nor Douglas is fully prepared to swear under oath that something wasn’t wrong before then. They’d be lying, for one thing, since anyone who’s taken even the most cursory of glances at Gertie knows that at any specified time she has no fewer than eight things wrong with her. Unfortunately, this time something is _seriously wrong_ \--wrong enough that Martin only has enough time to warn Carolyn and Arthur to buckle themselves in and shout for Douglas to hurry back from the lavatory before he’s fighting with the controls.

Douglas sprints the length of the cabin and skids into his seat, grabbing the radio and giving the gauges and dials a quick scan before signaling Mayday. As the instructions pour out of the speaker, he glances to Martin to check he’s listening and gets a terse nod in return. Martin’s knuckles are white from gripping the controls and his face is set in the same look of utter concentration Douglas imagines he had during his exams. That will never do. The last thing they need is their captain doubting himself.

“Martin,” he says, in an attempt to break the cycle of negativity he can almost hear, “You have control.”

It works. Martin blinks suddenly and looks over to him just for a moment before setting his gaze back out the windscreen. “Of course I do,” he says. “I’m the captain.” But his shoulders are slightly less tense than before and he relaxes his grip just the slightest bit, settling into the crisis with the air of a pilot with decades more experience. Gertie’s at least good for that--what would be the rarest of occurrences on other aircraft happen with almost alarming regularity on her, which gives both of them more than a passing familiarity with emergency procedures.

Between the two of them, they manage to make it to a clear patch before losing altitude completely. The untilled farmland provides only the tiniest bit of give, but it’s sufficient to slow their speed down enough that hitting the ground is less deadly and more just disastrous.

Gertie registers her protest at the ignoble stop through every means possible, blasting a cacophony of lights and sounds on the flight deck. There’s nothing but the ground proximity warning, the airspeed warning, and finally the stall announcement before Gertie’s final paroxysm of lights and sounds and the groans of metal shearing.

Then, silence.

\-----

How Arthur manages to get out, he couldn’t tell you--this is nothing like the Ipswich, in any variant. He just knows that one moment he’s bracing his elbows on his knees and the next he’s standing on the outside, watching Gertie bellow smoke into the clear blue sky.

At first, he thinks the clouds make her look a bit like a dragon, and he spends a moment imagining Martin and Douglas as knights and his mum as the queen, but then he catches sight of the pilots limping out of the flight deck. Douglas has nearly doubled himself over to rest some of his weight on Martin’s shoulders, bleeding from a head wound, rivulets of blood already staining his collar red and working their way to meet the growing expansion from the cuts on his chest. For his part, Martin looks to have avoided serious injury, although there is a bit of blood trickling from his ear.

Arthur immediately runs over, sliding himself in place of Martin to use his taller, broader frame to let Douglas stand upright and ease his breathing. Once Martin judges they’re far enough away from the smoke, Arthur sets Douglas down gently, though he’s forced immediately to grab hold of the back of his collar to prevent him from crashing to the ground when the older man lists sharply. Martin settles himself by Douglas’s hip, wrapping a supportive arm around his back to aid the shaking arm Douglas is using to prop himself up.

“Martin,” Douglas slurs. “Don’ f’rget...” He trails off.

“Don’t forget what?” Martin asks, distracted by his scan for Carolyn.

“Missile,” Douglas says.

Martin looks at him sharply. “The what?”

“The missile,” he says, the edges of his words sliding into one another. “Wine bottle. For hot water. Arthur’s asbestos gloves.”

“You mean the wine bottle Arthur filled with water and put on the lip of the engine?”

Douglas nods, then moans a bit and leans more heavily on Martin’s arm when the world tilts sharply at the movement.

"Skip?" Arthur asks, a worried note in his voice Martin has never heard before. "Will Douglas be alright?"

Douglas, for his part, hears Martin’s assurances as though from miles away, through the bottom of a drinking glass pressed against walls and doors. The world is lurching and swerving, even with his eyes shut, and the blackness does nothing for the massive throbbing behind his skull. He forces himself to concentrate on what Martin’s saying--calls for Carolyn to answer him and exhortations to Douglas to stay awake. It’s all he can do for a while just to keep himself upright until a sudden sickening certainty washes over him.

The world is not stable. He cannot remember a time when it was, and doesn’t hold any hope for it becoming so, and if he doesn’t grab onto something now he’ll be flung into space like so much errant clay off a potter’s wheel. Douglas makes a weak grab for the one bit of solidity he can think of, reaching desperately for the leg of Martin’s trousers. It’s not enough. His hands can’t gain purchase and the world closes in on him. There’s a disconcerting feeling of weightlessness and then nothing more. 

\-----

 

It’s Arthur who notices Douglas’s fall first, alerted by the sudden crashing of bulk into his leg. Martin’s arm, temporarily deadened from slamming into the door frame, registers nothing of the slide until Douglas has bounced off Arthur and is heading towards the ground. Luckily, his pilot’s reflexes kick in and he’s able to grab hold of just enough of Douglas’s shirt to prevent his head from hitting the ground, though it’s a near thing.

"Fuck." It was bad enough when Douglas was conscious, if confused. At least then he could fool himself into thinking his First Officer's mutterings as they left the flight deck were his attempts to work their way out of the problem. Never mind that Emily's name came up more than once, as did something about giraffes and purple wellies with disconcerting frequency. But now, with Douglas eerily silent, there's no question that they're in serious trouble.

Martin does a quick check of Douglas's pulse, and if his fingers linger longer over his throat than absolutely necessary, Arthur pretends not to notice. After a quick moment to reassure himself Douglas is still breathing, Martin turns to the steward.

"Take off your waistcoat. It can be a pillow." Arthur understands immediately and complies, lifting Douglas's head to slide it under carefully.

"I'm going to look for your--for Carolyn. Stay here with Douglas. If he wakes up, try to keep him on the ground. Don't let him sit up, even if it means if you have to sit on his chest, alright?" Martin doesn't give him a chance to ask questions, just waits for the answering nod before rising. He gives Arthur's shoulder a clap. "Good man."

Arthur turns to his charge, studying him seriously before shifting to sit beside him. He hesitates a moment before resting his hand on Douglas's chest, but he eventually decides that Douglas will need something grounding him when he wakes up. Also, it's a good way for him to make sure Douglas is still breathing while he looks around for signs of his mother. 

It’s only the work of a second before he’s lost Skip to the clouds of smoke still billowing out of Gertie’s engine and he’s left with an eerily silent Douglas and a disconcertingly noisy Gertie. Arthur forces himself to count Douglas’s breaths, listening as the air rattles around in his chest and eventually develops a pattern: In, look for Mum to the left, out, look for Mum to the right.

Just when he’s considering shouting for Martin, just to relieve the tension, he spots the shimmering gold of Martin’s epaulettes approaching. The smoke is starting to clear away a bit, and he can just about make out the look on his face. 

“Arthur,” he calls. “Come help!”

Arthur looks down at Douglas and hesitates. 

“Just for a second. We’ll switch!”

He gives Douglas’s chest a friendly pat. “Don’t go anywhere. We don’t want to have to look for you, too. Be right back!” 

Martin blinks grimly at Arthur as he approaches. “I found your mum.”

“Oh,” is all Arthur manages.

“She’s fine! God, no. It would take more than a plane crash to.... Well, er. She’s not...She needs some help and I can’t quite...”

Arthur looks, but sees nothing of Carolyn. “Where is she, Skip? I’ll help her.”

Martin points to an area strewn with debris. “She’s behind that piece of wing. The bit with the aileron?”

Arthur doesn’t know what an aileron is, but he sees only one piece big enough to hide his mother and nods, jogging over. Carolyn is there, trying to pull over one of the emergency blankets with a jagged bit of metal.

“Mum?” he asks, snagging the blanket and handing it to her.

Carolyn blinks at the blanket, then turns to Arthur and, without a word, tugs on his cravat to bring him closer. Arthur makes a bit of a squeak, but acquiesces, especially when his mother throws her arms around his neck and gives him the fiercest hug he can remember getting since his parents’ divorce. They stay like that for a moment until Carolyn re-gathers herself.

“Help me up,” she says, tugging on his sleeve.

Arthur looks down and evaluates her injuries, wincing when he gets to her knee, clearly swollen and dislocated. Before he can think twice about it, he scoops her up, carrying her back to the waiting pilots. Martin has resumed his position at Douglas’s shoulder. Carolyn is silent throughout the whole transfer, gathering fists full of Arthur’s shirt and grinding her teeth. Arthur is secretly very proud of her, though there’s a moment where he’s sure she’s going to pass out--right after he sets her down at Douglas’s other shoulder. But Carolyn takes a shaky breath, and then another and eventually manages to calm to waves of pain, examining Douglas critically.

"Of course,” she says, eying his prone form. “If there was _any possible_ way to work sleeping into this situation, Douglas would come up with it."

Martin has been trying to wake Douglas with various face taps and shoulder shakes, but it’s not until he pinches his ear sharply that Douglas wakes up. There’s a moment where he’s clearly disoriented, but then he focuses on Carolyn and his eyes clear a bit. "Lynn?" he asks. He blinks a couple of times, trying to get rid of the soot and dirt. "Lynn, I'm sorry. If I’d known..." he says.

Carolyn's face does a million complicated things in the space of a second.

"Shut up," she tells him, without any rancor. "Just...stop talking. You'll get smoke inhalation, too, and I'll have to listen to you moan and whine and cough like a canary in a bad coal mine for weeks."

She turns and gestures at a twisted hunk of metal just a bit away. "Arthur, is that the drinks trolley?"

"Looks like, Mum" he says. "Do you want something?"

Carolyn nods. "See what of it you can manage to bring back, please. Bottles of water first."

Arthur complies, fitting as much as he can in his arms. Martin has been scanning the wreckage and makes a small cry of discovery. He stands up to go rescue it, but it’s apparently too fast, and he nearly topples over. He drops back onto his haunches, leaning off to the side to be sick.

She rolls her eyes, but hands him a bottle of water nonetheless.

“Small sips,” she tells him, watching him carefully for signs of dizziness before she’ll let him attempt his foraging again.

While Martin is retrieving his discovery, Carolyn takes off her neckerchief, using it to wash some of the blood and dirt off Douglas's face. Douglas makes a small sound of disgust at being treated so, but can’t seem to make his limbs cooperate enough to do anything about it. Carolyn bats his one feeble attempt to stop her away. “None of that now,” she says. “I need to see how bad the wound is." Douglas loses the will to protest and lets her continue.

Once Carolyn’s sufficiently cleaned them up, there’s nothing left to do but wait. Douglas listens to the other three shuffle and settle, an awkward silence stretching between them. Finally, he can take it no more. There has to be a game he knows that will get them through this. If only it wasn’t so cold. Doesn’t Gertie have heating? Just because it’s blizzard conditions outside, doesn’t mean they have to be uncomfortable _inside_. Especially if he’s going to be forced into another round of Fizz Buzz while he waits for the caffeine to wear off.

Finally, Douglas alights on the perfect game and takes a breath to make his suggestion. But the breath seems to go nowhere. There’s something niggling at the back of his mind, but it’s lost in the sudden vertigo that washes over him. He considers briefly cluing them into his distress but the opportunity is lost when the world goes dark.

\-----

Douglas startles awake with a gasp, barely catching himself on the side table before he falls completely off the sofa. Emily is stood there, watching him with concern. “Daddy?”

Douglas groans a bit and throws his arm over his eyes. “Sorry, Ems. Just...fell asleep for a bit.”

She gazes at him for a bit, then pats his cheek. “It’s okay. You just sounded like you were having a bad dream, and Mummy said to see if you wanted any tea.”

“Yes, please, love. Tell her I’ll be in in a bit.” With a quick kiss on his cheek, Emily runs back to the kitchen, leaving him alone with the dregs of the dream. Douglas hadn’t recognized anyone in it, but there’s something there that is poking at the back of his mind. With a sigh and a quick scrub to the back of his head, he heads into the kitchen. His wife is there, back to the living room, hips gently swaying as she hums along to the radio. With a grin, he wraps his arms around her waist from behind, giving her a quick kiss as he steals a bit of the sauce bubbling happily on the cooker.

“Oi,” she says as she swats his hand. “It’ll keep until tea. Now, go change, love.” 

With another kiss on the cheek, Douglas complies, trudging up the stairs, still wooly-headed from the unexpected nap. He yawns as he opens the wardrobe, pulling his tie off and tossing it on the bed. But when he opens the drawers, he pauses.

There’s nothing there he recognizes. Everything looks like it belongs to his father, or one of his uncles, and nothing seems to have been made later than 1960 or so. Douglas pulls one of the cardigans out and sits heavily on the bed. The wool is scratchy against his hands and smells faintly of cordite and lager and nothing at all like home.

A sudden wave of exhaustion crashes over him, and he flops back on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. The previously-ignorable sense of wrongness returns full force, demanding his attention. Douglas pauses, listening to his brain whir as it tries to puzzle out what has him so unsettled about the whole situation. Several moments pass, and he grows no closer to the solution, just feeling the knot in his stomach double in size.

And there, on a bed that seems to recognize his shape, in a place that feels simultaneously like and unlike home, he falls asleep.

\-----

The next time he wakes, it’s to a sharp poking at his elbow. There’s a young man standing at his side, holding a truly gruesome-looking needle, quite obviously destined for his vein. The unexpected sight startles Douglas and he yanks his arm away reflexively. His shout wakes Martin, and before Douglas knows what’s happening, his vision is crowded with three faces, looking at him with various degrees of visible concern.

Something of his confusion must show on his face, because Carolyn grips his ankle tightly.

“How nice of you to join us,” she says. “Enjoy your sabbatical?”

Douglas blinks at her sleepily. “Very good,” he says. “Bad jumpers, but Emily, so good.”

The looks on their faces say none of them knows what that means, but he doesn’t care. The nurse has evidently managed to inject him with whatever happy-making substance had been in the needle, and the world blurs pleasantly around the edges. He gives a massive yawn.

“Go to sleep,” Martin says, surprisingly gently. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

“Back fr’m wh--” Douglas never finishes the thought, sliding off back into the darkness.

Carolyn settles herself carefully back in her chair. “Well, then.” 

With a nod, Martin places his hands back where he’s kept them every moment of the last six weeks since the crash--one on Douglas’s chest and the other on his wrist, checking his life signs. “Unexpected.”

She nods. “And so very him. Choosing the most annoying way possible to let us know he’s still in there. Not content to stay dully awake with the rest of us, or to wake after the anesthetic wore off, or even to give us two days and then pop up saying ‘Ha, weren’t you fooled?!’, no. Everything has to be dramatic, has to have a bit of flair to it, bloody fool. You’d think he didn’t know we were w--” She cuts herself off, pressing her hand to her mouth and looking out the window, blinking furiously.

“It’s alright, Mum. Douglas is fine now.” Arthur detaches himself from his post at Douglas’s side and moves to perch on the arm of Carolyn’s chair, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Carolyn takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. Martin shuffles his own chair slightly, near enough to stretch his legs out into her space. Carolyn raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing, simply leaning back slightly and nudging his foot with her own. He nudges back and gives her a small, wan smile, listening to the sounds of a deeply asleep Douglas.

And they wait.


End file.
